A Blank Letter

An envelope arrives unannounced from overseas

 containing stark white sheets,

perfect in their presentation of absence.

 Only a bold logo on top

revealed its origin, but absolutely nothing else.

 I examined the sheets,

peered through their grains —

 heavy cotton-laid striations —

concealing text, in white ink, postmarked India.

 Even the watermark’s translucence

made the script’s invisibility transparent.

 Buried among the involute contours, lay sheets

of sophisticated pulp, paper containing

 scattered metaphors — uncoded, unadorned,

untouched — virgin lines that spill, populate

 and circulate to keep alive its breathings.

Corpuscles of a very different kind —

 hieroglyphics, unsolved, but crystal-clear.